Lies(26)

“Is this about possible beacons or tracers or whatever?” I ask.

“Got it in one.”

“Can I keep my gun?”

Bear’s brows rise. “Thom gave you a gun?”

I nod.

“If it’s one of his, then sure, you can keep it.”

“Wait, will there be airport security when we land?”

The man just smiles and ushers me up the steps. I guess airport security isn’t a thing in the circles these guys move.

Inside is all white leather and charcoal-gray carpeting. Big comfortable-looking seats and discreet lighting. It’s the sort of thing billionaires and celebrities ride around in, no doubt. Wonder where they got it from. I’m probably better off not knowing.

“Bathroom’s at the back,” says Bear. “Your outfit’s hanging up inside. Try and be quick, all right?”

I nod.

The facilities aren’t much bigger than on a regular plane. But there’s a tiny sink trimmed in marble and an impressive, if small, shower unit. Hanging on the back of the door encased in clear plastic is a navy pants suit in my size, complete with a white knit crew neck. The brand is all Escada. I’m certainly dressing fancier since Thom got outed as an operative, that’s for sure. As per Bear’s instructions, I hurry. Behind the suit is a bag with all of the necessary underwear. No shoes, however, so I head out barefoot.

“Where do you want them?” I ask, old clothes bundled up in one hand and boots in the other. “Do I keep the same shoes or what, because they don’t really—”

And I stop ever so slightly dead.

Thom is standing in the aisle pulling on a pair of dark boxer briefs. His arms flexing and junk hanging free. There’s just so much skin to see. Take the ridges of his spine and strong planes of his back muscles leading to the dimples above his ass, for instance. The sadness and almost indifference of the days prior to my leaving him have been replaced by a horrid hyperawareness of him, which is growing by the moment. And it’s dangerous.

My gaze cannot be averted fast enough. Why the hell can’t the man keep his clothes on? I feel personally attacked.

“Give me a second,” he says, reaching for a pair of black suit pants. Then he, too, stops. “Why do you have your angry face on?”

“I’m not angry; I’m fine.”

Nothing from him.

“Can you please get dressed? We’re in a hurry, right?”

“Huh. I find it fascinating that seeing me naked messes with you to this degree.”

“Thom,” I growl.

The side of his mouth kicks up. Smirking bastard. “Dump them anywhere. I’ll deal with them. Your shoes and coat are on the chair there.”

I don’t throw my clothes on the ground because it would be juvenile and possibly confirm his bullshit theory about me being frazzled by his bare ass. He’s right, but he doesn’t need to know this. Also, I really did dig these unicorn jammies. Instead, I place my load gently on a plush white leather seat and turn to inspect the rest of my goodies. Not thinking about the thickness of his thighs or anything along those lines. Though I may need some private time soon. All of this restless (possibly slightly sexual in nature) energy is amassing inside of me. It can’t be healthy. Maybe it’s been brought on by all of the ongoing fear and tension from almost being killed, et cetera. Couldn’t be anything to do with him. Or it shouldn’t have anything to do with him.

Yeah, right.

Regardless, I don’t look at Thom again. It’s nice to know I have at least this much restraint. Meanwhile, Bear is in the cockpit, doing whatever pilots do before takeoff. My shoes are a pointy pair of gray leather high-heeled booties that I’ll quite possible break an ankle in. Though they are lovely. I’d kill for some make-up, but never mind. A woolen coat, pair of big sunglasses, and a Chloé handbag complete the outfit. Nothing is actually in the bag, but you can’t have it all.

“If you make me dump this outfit somewhere, I just might have to hurt you,” I say. “I look good in it.”

“You look good in everything, and I will buy you more unicorn-patterned items. Promise.”

I ignore the compliment. It’s safer that way. Yet when I dare a peek from under my lashes, it’s hard to say if I’m relieved or disappointed at his full state of dress. He, too, is wearing designer, by the look of things. A beautifully cut black suit with a plain white shirt. No tie. Shiny black shoes and hair slicked back. They say a man in a suit is like a woman in lingerie. Now I understand why.

“So what’s the occasion?” I ask.

“Another couple of rich assholes hitting New York for some shopping and a couple of shows shouldn’t raise any interest.”

“Let’s hope not.”

Thom gathers up the old clothes, tossing them out the plane’s still-open door. Such a waste. Hopefully whoever uses the airfield next will put them to use. My parents would be appalled. They don’t get rid of anything until it’s half-past dead, and even then, it’s inevitably somehow recycled.

Thom and I, on the other hand, are leaving a trail of abandoned cars and clothes across the country. Something tells me such things don’t concern operatives. Further evidence of my fiancé and me having nothing in common. I’ll have to donate to a charity on both our behalfs to erase the karmic debt so I’ll be able to look my parents in the eye come Christmas. Damn guilt complex. Of course, we have to live that long first. They must be so worried about me. I hate not being able to contact them, let them know I’m still breathing.